Bloodred Rain
by Ozeal
Summary: A kidnapping. A murder. A 'cure'. A handful of seemingly unrelated events draws the students at the Institute into a dangerous web of treachery, where friendships are strained, lies are sown and trust is betrayed in a show of deceit, paranoia and double-crossing. Not everyone will survive... Slightly AU (not much); rated for toture, violence, language and dark themes. Borderline M.
1. Chapter 1: Initiation

Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own it.

Warnings: There will be bad language, dark themes, torture and maybe some character death if I'm feeling mean. I regret nothing...

* * *

Bloodred Rain: Chapter 1

* * *

It was completely dark.  
Absolute.

Not a scrap of light could worm its way into the cell, the sloeblack blindfolding the six by eight feet like a heavy, undreaming sleep, comatose, dead to the world.

The single figure inside waited patiently, perched on the unyielding surface of a crude bench. He knew justice would come to him, to show the world his might and power; deep within him, certainty raged through his veins, imprinted on his heart. It wasn't right. Not this way. And as sure as the sun would rise in the morning, he would excert his revenge on those beneath him, revelling in their pained screams until their lifeblood seeped from them and he stood victorious, a conquerer, triumphantly standing over their cold corpses.

The door opened, a slit of luminesence illuminating the wall next to him. The light was ethereal after the time in the pitch darkness of his solitary confinement. The one who stepped into the light was godlike, a faceless deity opening a gateway to a white, celestial hellfire of punishment.

Not for him though. He wished he could make those who had wronged him burn in an eternal, agonising purgatory. It was what the bastards deserved. A pity, really. They'd only suffer for a short while before their frail forms broke to his will, collasping, unable to resist.

He stood up, every joint cracking at the alien sensation of movement. The deity held out a hand, the light wreathing them in a clandestine halo.

Looking up, he stared into the soul of his saviour, before moving to the door, escaping the bottomless abyss of night he had been held in.

Daylight burnt his unaccustomed eyes, purple and green being tattooed into his retinas, smeared across his vision like bruising upon pale skin. But his momentary blindness mattered not. He was out of the endless pit of solitary, the seeming aeons of contemplation and plotting finally over.

And he was coming for them.

* * *

As usual, breakfast at the Xavier institute was a hectic affair. Students were alternating between amicable, relaxed converstaion, laughing at the avidly gossiped stories from last night, and frenzied last minute homework, done at lightning speeds, like their lives depended upon it.

Kitty Pryde phased through the southernmost wall, irritably pulling a tired-looking hairbrush through her tangled mess of brown hair. Her normally impeccable, meticulous clothing was rumpled and in a hopeless state of disarray. Walking right through the table, a rack of still-warm toast and the younger mutant shapeshifter, Rahne Sinclair, did very little to distract her from her intense battle with her hair, now having incorporated her necklace into its disorderly bird's nest. Without pausing from her determined stroll, she rematerialised in time to grab a mars bar and a can of coke from off the worktop. Piotr smiled at her and waved in a friendly gesture, though Kitty ignored him, instead muttering something unintelligible about saturated fat and lack of time before school, once again disappearing through the adjacent wall. Piotr turned to Kurt, trying to communicate with the teleporter through his facial expression, clearly reading something along the lines of 'What did I do?'

The blue mutant simply rolled his eyes and shrugged as way of an answer, then proceeded to push the rest of his bacon and cheese sarnie into his mouth. His appetite was nothing short of legendary among the students at the Institute, having spurred innumerable eating contests, at all of which he had proclaimed himself unrivalled champion, and undisputed, unbeaten king of the all-you-can-eat buffet.

Grabbing a smoothie, Kurt left the hall with a quiet bamf and the unmistakable odour of brimstone, leaving Logan coughing and waving his calloused hand in an attempt to rid the space of the pungent smell which occupied the air. He speared a sausage and two slices of toast on one of his wicked-looking claws, using his other hand to slice the top off a bottle of some alchoholic drink. He grunted in response to Tabitha's patronisingly cheeky reprimand, voiced from the other end of the table.

His gruff retort, comprising of threats and the odd 'Bub', was interrupted before it had even formed by an angry shout from the corridor, followed by a thump, a few muffled curses and an irate Scott Summers blindly appearing in the doorway, one hand using the doorframe for navigation, the other tightly covering the top half of his face as a precaution. His omnipresent sunglasses were nowhere in sight.

"BOBBY! THIS ISN'T FUNNY! I NEED THEM NOW, DAMMIT!"

A set of giggles erupted from the back table, giving away the presence of the gang of conspirators. A few taunts were heard over the involuntary sniggering, one more prominent than the others, stemming from the cheif culprit, Bobby Drake, elicting further laughter from hs partners in crime. "What'cha gonna do Scoot, bazooka us?"

"Jean, Ororo, back me up here, will you?" came a frantic plea edged with weary hope for a little order in the entropy of younger students.

Upon recieving no answer from anyone who could control the situation, their leader's face darkened from mild irritation to tired resignation. Even under the protective concealment of his hand, it was evident his expression had changed, now appearing to have given up on any chance of recovery. Sighing reluctantly, he turned back to the corridor, accepting his fate, and probably trapsing back to the professor to try and eke out a spare pair, saving him from the awkward and potentially dangerous questions that would be asked if he turned up to school in a battle visor.

Bobby produced a pair of ruby quartz sunglasses from nowhere, and proceeded to put the on, pull a face and pose, much to the delight of his hangers-on. He continued his comic charade with "...and now, a love poem by the great and eloquent me. Roses are red. Violets are red. Everything is red in these damn things." Bobby finished with a flourishing, elaborate bow and a conceited snigger.

Rogue absentmindedly poked her cornflakes with her spoon, uninterested by the formless golden mass that was slowly devolving into mush in her bowl. Her silent musings were interrupted by Gambit, sliding into the vacant chair next to her and sliding a hand behind her back, cautious not to contact the lethal, pale skin. "Hey Cherie. This seat taken?"

"Yeah, it is, ya slimy swamp rat." came the curt and uninterested response.

"Then kick Remy out when he's in the way of whoever gonna sit here," the Cajun continued, ignoring the ambivalent stares he was recieving from Rogue, "Besides, Darlin', you lookin' stressed. Need something?"

"Not from you. Ah just get the feeling ah've forgotton something important, and ah can't for the life of me remember what it-"

Rogue stopped mid-sentence, eyes suddenly full of realisation. Her mouth fell open slightly, and without another word she pushed back from the chaotic table and sprinted full-pelt out, yelling to herself about overdue projects and detentions, her white-streaked hair flying out from behind her like it wished to linger behind in the kitchen with the Cajun.

In an arrogantly laidback response, Remy laid back in his chair, rocking back onto two legs, balancing it perfectly, and lazily propping his booted feet up onto the breakfast table, smiling satisfactedly as he drew the Ace of Spades from his jacket pocket.

Eventually the room quietened down, leaving the last two inhabitants furiously scribbling away at an essay on the War of Independance, their food cast aside in favour of schoolwork. One finished, slamming her book with a definitive -whap- sound, and leaving Roberto calling her back in a betrayed, broken tone; determined not to be the last at the table, he shut his book and ran after her, spilling a glass of orange juice which shattered on the tiled floor. He didn't notice it, too busy running after Jubilee, book tucked under his arm, following the aura of her distinctive yellow jacket.

The room was empty, the lights turned off as everyone left the mansion, for school or their respective tasks for the day.

It was only when both the motorbikes, all eight of the cars and the blackbird had left their garages, Nightcrawler had teleported off, and the three airborne mutants, through force, wind and wings, had flown their nest, that the figure dropped from its hiding place and spoke into an earpiece.

"Mansion empty. All personnel accounted for and in position. Do we engage in Operation: Holocaust?"

"Engage phase one."

"Understood. They'll be exterminated before they know what hit them."

* * *

School passed in its typical flurry of activity, panic, absentminded out-of-window-staring, maths problems, leaking pens and less-than-mediocre canteen food.

The school populace had decreased signifigantly over the last week or so, a particularly nastily devious bout of flu striking down many of the kids, though none of the Xavier lot seemed to be vunerable to the virus.

There were _some _perks to being a mutant.

When the final bell went, it shrieked through the building, the sound of gleeful freedom resonating down hallways, carrying the unmistakably anticipated atmosphere of half-three on a Friday afternoon.

The exulted cries and relieved chatter did nothing to ease Alex's foul mood. He'd travelled thousands of miles from Hawaii to here to visit his brother, only to be stuck in another infuriating detention. Groaning and smacking his head onto his desk didn't help. Never did. His phone buzzed twice in his pocket, heralding a message. Inconspicuously as possible, he slowly slid the device from his pocket, a fleeting glance at the screen telling him all he needed to know.

'where are you? sams having a movie night. watching some horror thing. wants to know if youre coming'  
- Recieved 15:49

Discreetly, with all the skill of a savvy highschooler, Alex sent a quick reply to Scott. It didn't contain a lot, just a simple affirmation.

'lright. in dtn. done in 40'. The detention was unjust. He had slept in accidently after he and Ray had spent a night frying electrical items, not having the foresight to spare each other's alarm clocks, in the crusade to see which 'zap' was more powerful. It was Alex's, incidentally, but that wouldn't allow him to blast himself exempt from the what was left of another torturously long hour of writing out the school's dreary policy on punctuality and attentiveness.

Scott's reply was a swift and concise 'needa lift?'  
-Recieved 16:02

'im fine thx'

Really, it had vey little to do with the library books he always claimed were overdue. His frequent walks home were more to do with the girl that he passed up on his way home. Recently, he'd noticed, she had dyed a green streak into her hair. It looked good on her. They just got on well with each other. Lorna was a bit mad, reckless and headstrong, prone to bouts of rash behaviour or borderline insanity. He needed it right now, the tediously sluggish day draining the enthiusiasm and spirit from even the liveliest of the students detained in the educational cage of hell. Alex grimaced, before being sternly snapped from his daydream, addressed by Miss Frost. Everyone loved to hate the business teacher, even if ninety per cent of the boys spoke about her in hushed tones, and fantasised whenever economic climates bacame a little too exciting for them. He made a face behind her back and resumed his untidy recap of Sector 3: Punctuality and Attendance -Clauses One to Fourteen.

'Clause 4: Students' punishments for latenesses fluctuate in their intensity; which corresponds directly with the frequency of their offffences.' To Alex's brain, it meant little more than garbled, meaningless teacher speak. Still fatigued from the morning's events and slightly jetlagged from the however-many-hour time difference, he rubbed his eyes, willing the words to stop blurring, spiralling like insect distortions on the page.

'There is a strong correlatio.o.o. between the frequency density and the periods of time served as recompense by those that consciously deem their education unworthy of due respecckkkt...'

Beaten, Alex put his head in his hands and slumped onto the table, marred by generations of scratched initials, gum wadges and nocks where rulers were used as blades to carve the sides out.

A tapping on his shoulder roused him from his momentary stupor. Frost was leaning over him, a fake smile that didn't reach her emotionless eyes was plastered over her face like a civil façade. "Are you alright sweetie? Just tired, huh?"

Alex blinked rapidly, and rubbed the sore corners of his eyes, nodding mutely in response.

"I tell you what," Frost continued, her condescending voice twisted into an even more patronising sneer than usual, "You go early, and I'll file your time for next week when you've caught up on some sleep."

Alex knew it would mean another hour and a half of his life wasted on Monday; it was Frosty the Ice Queen, the sadist of the millenium, putting Stalin to shame, and she would subject her helpless victims to an extra hour's worth of detention because she had absolute power over her charges. The suspension was never out of the goodness of her own twisted mercy; after less than a week at Bayville, he knew that, at least.

The chair screeched as it was pushed back across the floor. Alex listlessly shouldered his bag, not even bothering to check if he'd left anything behind. All his tired mind wanted to do was hang out with Lorna for a bit, then collapse into bed as soon as possible. French irregular verbs could wait a while; he still had the weekend to idly procrastinate and blast things in the danger room.

He made his way down the corridor, ignoring the chain smokers and graffiti 'artists' that covered the lockers in their neon spray-painted signatures. Pushing open the main door, and wincing when it crashed against the outer of the building, sending a shockwave through the entrance hall, he dragged his feet out into the sun. Instantly, he felt a small degree better, livelier. He didn't understand it, something to do with the mutant physiology he and his brother shared, recharging like a solar panel. The thought actually quite amused him, the two of them sitting out under the sky and the relentless glare of the sun.

He slowly trudged out of the school gates towards the park, where he promised he'd meet Lorna, detention pending. It wasn't far, and closer still if a slight shortcut through the wood was utilised.

He lithely hopped over the stile, avoiding the splinters and rusted nails that stubbornly stuck out of the wood like fangs from the jaw of a rattlesnake. His bag didn't fare so well, snagging slightly on the viscious spikes of the barbed wire as he jumped down from the gate and headed between the gnarled, rough-barked trees.

This time of year, at the height of summer, the sunlight fell gracefully through the semitranslucent leaves, veiling the world in a shroud of mottled green and yellow. A jay hopped from branch to branch, scrutinising the newcomer in the comically lopsided way birds did, head to the side, bouncing on needleclawed feet.

A slump from behind announced the cataclysmic fall of his books from his bag, landing in an ungainly heap, disturbing the leaf litter and causing an armageddon for a small colony of woodlice.

He slung the rucksack off his shoulders, only now noting the large rip in the bottom and the broken zip, ruefully contemplating the trek home with both hands full of textbooks and the assorted contents of his shredded bag. Reluctantly gathering up his books, he bent down to retrieve a fallen dollar, mindfully apologising to the terrified minibeasts that quaked before him.

"Alex Summers, wreaker of havoc, conquerer of woodlice." He couldn't help but smile a little at his self-endowed title, murmuring it as a confirmation to himself.

Without warning, the observable universe froze in front of him.

It was almost as if the trees stood still when they heard his proclamation. The leafy path suddenly seemed to shrink before him, the breeze ceasing as nature held its breath. The silence was eerie, like nobody dared to move, as if to interrupt, make a noise would spell destruction. The air cooled, and a sense of dreaded ominosity settled over Alex, still clutching his biology book like a shield, as if photosynthesis and respiration would protect him from the terrors of the unknown.

A hushed whisper.  
There.

Barely decipherable from the foliage and undergrowth, a voice. Alex couldn't make out a lot, but what he heard was enough to make his blood run cold.

"...Summers... No, the younger one... Holocaust..."

The last word set every cell in Alex's body on edge. It was a word with terrible connotations, and in this context, he doubted he would be given a history lesson.

He called upon his energy reserves, watching his hands glow with the hereditary red energy, releasing it into the bracken, willing enough force into it to stun and blacken the plant life without serious consequences, or endangering of life. Despite his prominent desperation, he wasn't a killer.

Something flinched in his peripheral vision, almost undetectable. Without thought, acting upon raw instinct alone, he shot at it, releasing far too much pent-up force in a reflexive, panicked defence.

He didn't know if he missed, becase by the time the young mutant acknowledged it he was sprinting back towards town, books abandoned, fuelled by fear and adrenaline, all rationality lost to the primordial compel of blind terror.

A lone bramble bush blocked the path; it's weaving, threaded structure imposing yet easily overcome. Alex could jump it.

He leapt mid-stride, but at the speed he was travelling, he misjudged and snagged his ankle in an instant of pain and shallow pinpricks. The ground rushed to meet him at impossible velocity.

It slammed into him like a tsunami.

His head was throbbing, but, spikes aside, otherwise Alex seemed relatively unharmed, a quick inspection affirming his health. The sheer number of brambles embedding their sharp spines into his skin made him freeze, if not to allow him some respite from the biting pain.

Another spine speared his skin. Which was odd, because there weren't thorns in or around his upper torso or neck. Wincing, Alex reached gingerly up to pull the damned plant out from the nape.

It wasn't organic. It certainly didn't come off a bramble bush.

A tiny white cartridge perched on the end of a hyperdermic needle, the minute object instilling an atmosphere of unadulterated panic contrasting to its neglegible size. Alex's insides felt as though thay had been dropped through the earthy floor, his breath catching in his throat as he let the tiny thing drop.

The cartridge was empty, it's clouded surface betraying its lack of content. It was labelled simply 'X'

An overwhelming sense of dread encompassed him, and then-

...  
...

* * *

Two men in black milillitarian uniforms stood over the unconscious mutant, domineering, superior.

Their uniforms were almost like those of the special forces, helmets and visors obscuring their identities and any trace of individualism, armoured and armed. Earpieces trailed behind their necks and each carried a large machine gun, a squareish Glock pistol and a vast array of knives. Yet neither showed any sort of identification, apart from one gold ring around the taller man's arm, distinguishing rank or merit. Either way, he held the power.

One repeatedly kicked the boy in the abdomen, and the other pressed his heavily weighted, steel-toed combat boot over the Alex's face, smearing it into the dirt ofthe forest floor. Setting down his gun, he reached into the breast pocket of his kevlar vest, producting another needle, this one larger and filled with an odiously tar-like liquid, with a thick, cloying viscosity. He waited for the NCO to outlet his rage on the motionless figure. It was a mutant. It wasn't as if the scum like that didn't deserve it.

A minute passed. Two.

The soldier, having finished his relentless assault on the mutant, let his superior officer crouch next to the kid. Neither felt any remorse or conviction as they clinically swept his too-long blond hair away from the base of his skull, revealing the tanned skin beneath. Brutally ripping the plastic cover off the hypo, the superior signalled for his partner to hold the unconscious subject down, and cover his mouth, as he aligned the needle to where the spinal cord meets the brain stem.

He laughed, a harsh, gravelly, rasping sound, as he spat out a sentence so full of untempered hatred it seemed to hiss in the airspace, poisoning the ground with its twisted intent.

"I hope you suffer, you subordinate piece of shit."

He flicked the needle, and a ghost of a smile could be seen under the obscuring mask as the liquid seeped its way into Alex's body.

The kid's eyes snapped open.

Alex screamed with horror and an overwhelming sense of unimaginable agony as his body convulsed, trying pitifully to rid itself of the toxin now burning him from the inside out.

A fresh wave of fire racked his stricken form and he yelled again, its echoes folornly searching for recipients to answer his call.

Nobody hears it.

And a mile and a half away, a sibling felt a sudden and inexplicable shock of heartache as something important was forcefully ripped from him.

16:51 Message from: Scott. Message reads: you ok?

16:56 Missed call from: Scott

16:57 Message from: Lorna. Message reads: r we still meetng? park 4 45 riht?

17:01 Missed call from: Scott

17:09 Missed call from: Scott

17:22 Missed call from: Scott

17:35 Message from: Scott. Message reads: alex. your almost an hour late. call me if somethings wrong.  
17:35 Missed call from: Scott

17:36 Missed call from: Scott

You have 1 new voicemails

17:39 Message from: Lorna. Message reads: hv i dun st wrong? u wanted 2 meet here bt u hvnt come

17:42 Missed call from: Lorna

You have 3 new voicemails.

17:53 Message from: Sam G. Message reads: Gonna start without ya will put dvd in ya room wen done ;-)

17:59 Missed call from: Mum

You have 4 new voicemails

18:14 Missed call from: Lorna

18:28 Message from: Icemanisawesome. Message reads: Missing out. Movies amazin. Scared da hell outta jamie tho XD LOL SO FUNNY gonna show you dat face later.

18:36 Missed call from: Scott 18:36 Missed call from: X Institute

18:38 Missed call from: number unidentified

You have 6 new voicemails

18:55 Missed call from: Mum

18:57 Message from: Mum. Message reads: Call us later when youre ready. Lots of love Xxx

18:58 Missed call from: Scott 18:58 Missed call from: Scott 18:58 Missed call from: Scott 18:58 Missed call from: Scott

18:59 Missed call from: Scott

You have 7 new voicemails

19:22 Message from: The Fuzzy Dude :). Message reads: You are going to miss the Food tonight! It is a Feast! And Wolverine is giving free Bier to everyone. You do'n't want to be late!

19:34 Message from: Scott. Message reads: missing dinner. saving you some. pls tell me if your ok. not showing up on cerebro and cant track your phone

19:41 Missed call from: X Institute

19:44 Missed call from: Scott 19:44 Missed call from: Scott 19:44 Missed call from: Jubilee

19:45 Message from: ray. Message reads: this is scott on others phones. you alright?  
19:45 Missed call from: Roge 19:45 Missed call from: Peter. Or piotr. Or whatever.

19:47 Missed call from: magma

You have 14 new voicemails.

WARNING: Reaching SD Card Storage Capacity Limit. Delete old messages/call logs to retain space.

19:56 Message from: Scott. Message reads: calling police in 5 mins. pls call.

20:00 Message from: Scott. Message reads: calling police now. sorry bro.  
20:00 Message from: Icemanisawesome. Message reads: U There?

WARNING: Reaching SD Card Storage Capacity Limit. Delete old messages/call logs to retain space.

20:00 Message from: Rahne (Wolfie). Message reads: Havok, Scott's gone nuts and called the police. IDK what you're doing, but please call him back. You know he gets protective. -R

20:02 Message from: Storm. Message reads: Ororo here. Alex, please come back. If there is an issue, whatever it is, we can talk about it.

20:08 Missed call from: number unidentified

You have 21 new voicemails

WARNING: Reaching SD Card Storage Capacity Limit. Delete old messages/call logs to retain space.

20:30 Message from: Scott. Message reads: stay where you are. in search party. coming to see if your ok

WARNING: Reaching SD Card Storage Capacity Limit. Delete old messages/call logs to retain space.

20:33 Missed call from: Mum

WARNING: Reaching SD Card Storage Capacity Limit. Delete old messages/call logs to retain space.

20:34 Message from: Mum. Message reads: Prof. X called me. Hope you're Ok Alex. Be safe Xxx

WARNING: SD Card Memory Full

Miss ca fro[0555827/

4d%87/2t63.55$5-.

system error

* * *

**Author's note: I should be updating this soon, within a week at the most. Some updates will be later than others and for that I am sorry... I have exams, as you do.**

**PM me if you want to see more of a certain character, pairing or situation; it's not going just to be about Alex but I wanted to start with someone that I could bash about without feeling too remorseful.**

**There will be lots of GambitxRogue, for the Romy fans, and maybe some Jott, but I don't know who else, so write a review if you want to see your ships written here!**

**And reviews are like lifeblood to authors, and they make us so much more inclined to write faster, especially if we know there are people that like us. Constructive criticism welcome, and by all means voice your dislikes on this piece, but flames will be used to roast iMarshmallows!**

**Thanks for reading!**

**-Oz**


	2. Chapter 2: Development

Chapter 2: Development

* * *

The mutant girl was alone.

She was perched on the end of her bed, enthralled by her laptop, balanced precariously on her knees. Stickers adorned the back of the screen, a few rock bands, a handful of twisting, snaking celtic designs, a photograph, some handsome movie star; the usual for a teenage girl with a goth style. It wasn't her taste in music that the scout was interested in, however, but the tragically unfortunate by-product of the heinous mutation encoded somewhere within the deep recesses of her genetic makeup.

This one was the absorbing leech of a highschooler that would steal memories and personalities without remorse or consequence. A single touch could place a healthy man into a coma, or when prolonged, off into the afterlife.

Sitting at a computer hundreds of miles away, he guided the little airborne reconnaissance unit into position, willing the camera to zoom in onto the girl; scrutinising her every move, the details of the room, the serious military hardware used to protect the school of spawn. It was impressive, he had to admit, and getting the SWAT team into the building in the first place was a daunting task. He was surprised the lackeys pulled it off- despite their considerable muscle and physical prowess, they were dogs at heart; obedient, willing and completely stupid unless they had been specifically trained. And none of them could ever seize the initiative, even when it popped up in front of their gormless faces, right in front of them.

His slender fingers flashed over the keyboard, inputting commands into his machine. The screen complied, switching to the inside of the room, where the dogs had set up cameras less than a day go. Already, his superiors knew more about the muties than they had known since the dubiously titled school had been set up, most of which he accredited to his tireless work ethic and natural skill with anything electronic.

In the background, as a testament to this, a supercomputer was kept busy worming its treacherous way into the institute. He had great respect for whomever had programmed the security protocols of the place; the loopholes were few and far between, of such minority that their effects wouldn't even be felt by those in the mansion. But, he had the world's most powerful military on his side, and the billions of tax dollars that went into keeping the people safe at night was well spent.

Of course when he said people- he meant humans.

The government had known about the existence of the mutants, residing together in that place like bees in a hive, for a number of years, but the public simply wasn't ready to have their world turned upside down by the revelation that the mild mannered freshman could walk straight into their homes without permission, or that the serene professor could weasel his way inside their heads and do anything he willed- from controlling their actions and reading their thoughts to erasing personalities or simply telling their heart to stop. There would be unprecedented uproar all over the world, an outcry that would rock society to the core. People just couldn't handle those facts despite the evidence that had the potential to make more of an impact than a claxon inside a nuclear reactor. But really, people were stupid, like ignorant, bleating sheep that would go along with whatever crap the media shoved down their throats.

The technician grunted and resumed his work, observing one of the most dangerous suspects. She was frowning and furiously typing into the laptop, her fingers almost punching holes through the fragile surface. Her face softened for an instant, conveying something akin to hope, though it was short lived- her expression quickly hardened back into the mask of concentration, biting her lip and distractedly swiping one of her stark white streaks off her face, only for it to fall back over in a cascade of hopelessness.

As he watched the door opened and a beautiful African woman stepped into the light, accentuating her chocolate skin tone and reflecting off her wave of perfectly combed white hair. She set down a cup of some hot drink- coffee or cocoa, the colour receptors on the camera weren't the best, and gave the girl a quick homely smile, conveying warmth and sincerity. It seemed to calm her a little. After a short conversation, which he was unable to discern due to the awkward angle of his viewpoint, she rested a hand daintily on the girls shoulder, in a comforting gesture of reassurance.

How she could even bear to come into contact with the parasite bewildered him completely, before realising that this was the weather witch- one of the freaks. Pity really. She could be a queen if she wasn't so focused on raising the muties into brainwashed, blind soldiers.

After the older woman had trailed gracefully out of the room the goth kid slammed the laptop closed and started to storm haughtily out of the room when another freak slunk in like a fox.

It was easy to see there was something off about this guy. It was all in the eyes, and not in the freaky spiritual way that psychologists were forever wittering on about, weaving lies to line their pockets. These eyes weren't human. A fathomless abyss of nyxblack, enwreathing an aureole of flaming, dusky aether- soulless eyes, screaming of lies and deceit.

He sauntered in, an irascible air of arrogance surrounding him like a corona of overconfidence. He stared down the younger girl, his eyebrows dancing in an outrageous show of flirtation. He said something indecipherable, and in response she irately snapped back, almost screaming, an irrational reaction to such a simple remark.

The guy backed timidly out of the room, hands up in a horrifically pretentious performance of surrender. He slid backwards through the door, slipping back into the hallway like the slimy eel he was. The girl sighed and floundered down onto her bed, picking up a textbook and lazily flicking it open, flipping uninterestedly from page to page. This lasted a mere second, before the trechcoated mutant once again poked his head into her room, sneaking round the edge of the door.

He was met with a textbook to the face.

It soared through the airspace, catching him square on the chin and dropping heavily to the ground. In response, he winked before scrambling out of the room when a substantially thick history book was projected towards his head like an air-to-air missile. The girl sat in silence for a while after that, arms hugging her knees, drawn into herself like a mollusc inside a protective shell, noiselessly contemplating something. Hesitantly, she stood up and slouched out into the hall, a dejected look plastered over her pale face.

He followed her with the ARU, the little helicopter-like contraption whizzing just out of sight, following her adamantly through the large spacious windows like paparazzi. Swiping the live footage aside, he switched the windows to engage in a basic routine, checking of the parameters and sensors- just in time. The animalistic brute was doing a patrol of the area as if he was looking for someone, calling out for them into the night. The observer was in the dark as to what he was saying, as the ARU held no microphone. He took back every scrap of praise he had lavished previously upon the military, instead cursing them. One small microphone would have been ideal, and not impossible it fit into a tiny circuit. It could have been easily integrated into the spycam, but no, his superiors were determined to make him lip read everything that occurred. Assholes.

He shifted the camera out of the mutant's sight, digitally watching as the brute passed underneath, before once again setting out to pursue his prey; the southern swamp leech was forgotten. Setting his sights on the predator, the operator silently left his hiding place to chase down the Wolverine.

* * *

Logan knew something was amiss. The flying camera gloating over Rogue's bedroom was a bit of a giveaway.

It wasn't even trying to be stealthy, its helicopter like blades and spindly four legged structure whirring incessantly as it restlessly maneuverered for a better viewing position. He kept it in his peripheral without directly looking at it- if someone was spying on them then there had to be a reason, and the less they thought he knew the better.

_Jeez Logan, you're starting to sound like someone civil._

He put it down to it being a long night… and maybe Ororo, but that was irrelevant now. Besides, there was a kid that had skipped curfew, and as much as he hated being the face of order, reason and restraint, he had a duty to the professor, if not the students to keep them safe.

Interesting. He was unaware he had a fan club.

The thing was following him now doggedly trailing him, at such a distance it would seem like would have to have no sensory input at all not to notice. It was difficult not to stare at the weird little surveillance object, ungainly flying behind him like a needlessly clingy girlfriend, stubbornly, refusing to move. It was verging on annoying, and the temptation to yell lividly at the jaunty heli-cam-thing and stick a claw through its stinking circuitry was almost overbearing. Through his temporary psychic link with the professor, used in case of finding the kid, he sent over the images of the thing, brusquely inquiring if now was good time to slice it out of the sky. Xavier's response was controlled, calm, directly contradicting with Logan's heating irritation with that shotty camera.

'_Logan this is important. If someone is attempting to endanger my students through any medium then they must be thwarted by whatever means necessary. Bring it in please.'_

Gleefully, Logan unsheathed his claws with the distinctive _snikt_ that accompanied the action, determined to bring the piece of junk down from the sky, spewing sparks and maybe some smoke, like an aggravatingly petty dragon. Before he could do so though, the serene professor's voice once again echoed through his consciousness.

'_Oh, and Logan, it is worth far more to us in one piece. And _undamaged_ if you wouldn't mind.'_

Grunting gruffly in response to his restraining order, the Wolverine spun round to face the camera. It seemed like an hour that they were staring each other down, mentally grappling for a sense of heightened superiority, before Logan grabbed its metal foot and stormed back to the mansion, the patrol forgotten, discarded in favour of the new development. The unit's propeller blades snarled in their fight to be free, fighting pointlessly against the iron grip of the Wolverine. He smirked inwardly, laughing at the helicopter's angry protests to being manhandled in such a way, spinning its blades in a futile attempt to escape. In retaliation, he placed his fingers between the blades, wincing slightly as they struck the skin, but then grabbing one shaft and watching in good humour as the berserk machine spun itself around, looping in frenzied circles. He laughed privately at the antics, his only audience himself, revelling in the just fate of the spying pile of junk.

He trooped up the driveway towards the ancient oak doors that protected the institute. They were old, bound with iron that had seen its fair share of centuries. Nothing close to like what the wealthy British family owned back over the Atlantic, but impressive enough for any onlookers to grasp the import of the place; it was difficult not to be daunted by the building's vast, imposing size.

He struck the door twice, abruptly, his metal bones clinking slightly as they made contact with the aged wood. He wasn't waiting long, just enough time for the camera to try to make another grand escape, its blades whirring faster and repeatedly cuffing his bare arms, though having little effect.

Kitty opened the door, her eyes filling momentarily with hope as she saw Logan returning early from his watch. He hated to break bad news to those he liked, especially the half-pint, whom he had grown uncharacteristically fond of during an escapade where the two of them were stranded in Japan for a week. It had brought them closer for definite, and had led to at least a fraction of his primordially raging animalistic nature being calmed by her upbeat, naive demeanour and all out happy outlook on life. Of course she would believe his untimely return heralded Alex's too, but it simply wasn't the case.

'Hate to disappoint Half-Pint, but I aint found him. This though, I did find.' He gestured to the dejected machine, tucked snugly under his arm like some precious cargo. 'I'm taking it in to see Chuck about it. Wanna dissect the thing with us?'

Kitty's expression fell drastically, tugging on the strings of the typically furious Wolverine's heart. Of course he wasn't the most empathetic of people- he left that to the sensitive ones- but something about that sudden change from flourishing anticipation to solemnity normally reserved for funerals, provoked a twinge of guilt he rarely allowed himself to show.

'Okay,' her tone was quiet, yet not beaten in any way, determined more than anything else, 'he's probably just like, hanging out with that new girl he's always with. Having a sleepover or… or something. And I know Amara managed to text him this morning, so he probably just got his phone confiscated... I'm sure that's why he isn't answering, right? I mean, come on. Nobody knows we're mutants, and he's new here, so, like, nobody's going to figure out the connection, even if they did know, like Amanda does. Yeah, he's fine and we'll probably find him up here tomorrow with like, a bazillion missed calls and-'

'Kitty. Quiet.' As much as Logan was endeared by the girl, he disliked her ability to talk nonstop whenever she got nervous, or frenziedly into something. Then again, everyone living here talked too much, apart from Rogue who locked herself in her room and shut out the rest of the world. 'You going to bed now, or what? It's getting late.'

'But I'm not a _kid _anymore. And there's no school tomorrow, so it's not like I have to get up in the morning… Please?' Her large brown eyes suddenly widened in an impression of Bambi. Logan grunted.

'Puppy eyes aint gonna work here, kiddo. Get to bed now- just 'cos we have a student missing doesn't mean you're all exempt from Danger room training. Now scram. Shoo. Skedaddle.'

Kitty pouted, screwing up her face in distaste, before ambling up the stairs to her bed, as slowly as possible to put off the inevitable bedtime. Logan growled back at her. 'A little faster please darlin'.'

'Sadist.' Kitty poked out her tongue and yelled back in defiance of him.

'Don't make me come up there, Bub.' He unleashed his claws, ensuring the _snikt_ was clearly audible to her. No reply came.

Evidently, there was no arguing with the Adamantium.

'_Logan, if you'd please hurry. I fear this may turn into a long night.'_

'Sure thing Chuck,' he mumbled to himself, rolling his eyes and making sure that the Professor understood the implications of the action through the psychic link. He tightened his grip on the unit, and made his way into the lab, where Beast's striking, grandiose figure was visible, the cerulean blue of his fur prominent against the clinical white of the laboratory.

Logan unceremoniously dumped the thing on the table, and stepping back to let the others see. It started up again and sluggishly ascended towards the ceiling like a drunk housefly.

It buzzed insolently at the trio, and if such a mechanical item could show anger this would be it, irascible, arachnid-like mechanoid of hate. It was almost funny.

The three let it do its thing in relative silence, interrupted only by the ubiquitous buzzing that filled the room in a pervasive drone of static, white noise in the otherwise hushed mansion.

Hank frowned at the drone, watching as it hit the ceiling repeatedly like a senseless insect that had lost its way in a house and was too shortsighted to notice the window. He frowned, as if in recognition. Momentarily after that, inspiration struck him. 'It's an ARU,' he explained, his ape-like face still creased as he attempted to remember, 'Airborne reconnaissance unit. _Someone_ wants information on us, someone with money and technology. This is all but state-of-the-art, though I can't see a microphone on here… hang on, just a sec.' Cautiously, he prized the plastic cover off the now stationary object, and with gentle precision oxymoronic for a brutish blue hulk of a man, he removed the circuit board, his Talon-like fingernails used as an impromptu screwdriver. Holding it up to the light to inspect it further, he gasped, realisation now dawning upon him. 'My,' he gushed, full of a scientific respect for such a trivial little thing, 'Professor, come and have a look at this… the PCB is further than military grade, bordering into the espionage area… you see here, the intricacies over by the thermistors? Hm?'

Logan switched off. Once the two learned men instigated a conversation about science, the words became unfeasibly long pretty in a unnaturally rapid space of time. He wasn't stupid, but the only Ph.D he had was in slicing things.

'Kay guys. I'm gonna leave you two to your… science. I'm jus' the one that stabs things, so I aint gonna follow a word you're saying.'

'Goodnight Logan.'

'Whatever. Have fun with your methyl-bio-enzo-hyper-genome-propanol thing.'

* * *

Scott was out with the search party. The search party of one.

He had been scalded for wasting police time, as their priorities on missing persons only lasted for people who had been absent for 36 hours or more. It was a bitter sting to him, and despite the surety that he felt over the matter, his worries being substituted for eating doughnuts and waiting for someone to break the speed limit. His venture was a fraught search, based upon intuition more than anything else. It was almost like a brotherly sense, and when the pit of his guts practically fell away, he became hell-bent on finding Alex. He knew something was wrong; he wasn't a psychic, some sort of telepath, or with precognitive abilities, but there was a deep connection between the two. He had lost his baby brother once before, and was determined not to lose him again.

Yelling out over Bayville into the night, Scott waited, distraught, for some sort of response, a call, a revelation… anything. Desperation was starting to play in, the night yielding nothing to him. It was irresponsibly dark now, and the constant reminder of his tinted lenses did little, literally, to shed light on the matter. He had forgotten to bring a torch with him, in the despondently dire race to get out and find Alex. The hill held no results for him, so he inconsolably moved off, stepping carefully now that the only illumination was the late-night, caliginous titian streetlamps that observed their slight patch of ground below.

He slipped, veering off in the mud. The unexpected rain had terraformed the dirt into thick, viscous sludge that made the going precarious and had caused him to slide several times, his attire now marred by the culminations of several slides and falls, mudsplats and rips in his shirt as the result of a nasty incident with a thicket, which had been a violent collision, to say the least. Upon reflecting that, he rubbed the still-bleeding slices which littered his torso and legs like unwelcome friends. He shouldered the pain and continued his search, ignoring the pain from the many scrapes and injuries he had accidently inflicted upon himself. They didn't matter. They could wait. Alex could be lying unconscious, or bleeding out in the darkness… he banished the thought, yet continuing with a renewed sense of determination, steel replacing the blood in his veins.

An indefinite amount of time later, he found himself back at the institute, his fruitless perusal heralding nothing. Staggering listlessly back, he all but collapsed in the doorway, lifelessly dropping down the side, propping himself up using the sandstone blocks that supported the great build. Fleetingly checking his watch, the hands lighting up in the pitchblack veil of the night, he tried to make sense of the time, but his eyes were sliding shut of their own accord, and he lacked the willpower to keep them open. Everything stood still, momentarily, ignoring the creak of the wood as the door opened, yet the silent protests of his girlfriend could be easily discerned, motivating him to prize his weary eyes open.

Her face was almost completely in shadow, yet her hair fell like a deluge of water, unmistakeable. He managed a weak smile, before closing his eyes again in admittance, conceding to fatigue.

'Scott? _Scott!_ Thank God! I was so worried… it's half past five in the morning; you've been out all night looking for Alex.' He could feel her scrutinising him, anxiously taking in the cuts and bruises, the mud, the blemished purple circles under his eyes, or at least what was visible under his chipped sunglasses.

All he could do in response was make a quiet acknowledging noise, weariness quickly setting in now his hunt was postponed. The reticent, still tone coming from Jean was oddly soothing, the words blurring together, becoming meaningless, simply lulling him away from the world, softening the harsh feel of the stone behind his back, the cold biting at his skin.

'Come on, let's get you inside soldier. You look like crap. Alex can wait for now-'

He stiffened, tensing at the mention of his brother. Struggling out, he tried to make his way back out to the rugged landscape, in another attempt to track him down, but was halted by a forcefield that left him sprawled on the ground, half-conscious.

'Scott… there's nothing you can do now. Come back. Don't beat yourself up about it… please?' It was a plea, selflessness etched into her voice like acid burning into metal. 'Go have a shower. I'll get Logan to excuse you from training tomorrow. You deserve it…'

From there, it was a bit of a blur, lost in a vortex of tiredness, water and screaming.

* * *

Jean found Scott lying dejectedly on the porch.

After a brief struggle, he relented, ceasing his efforts, allowing Jean to guide him up the staircase towards his room. Even after practically forcing him into the shower, fully clothed, he was unresponsive, eyes closed behind his sunglasses. Tentatively reaching out to his mind, probing without violating his privacy, all that was visible was a confused, tumultuous whirl of loss, anxiety, hopelessness and an imperative sense of dread so strong that she had to pull out in case of the scenario where she became lost in the concerned uncertainty.

She called his name. No response. It scared her, seeing him like this, so cold, unemotional, just a blank slate on the surface, unruptured by the turmoil that was raging in the deep recesses of his mind. 'Scott? Please answer me… _Answer me!' _Her eyes widened in concern, desperate for a response.

He turned to her, his eyes unseen and unfathomable. 'There's nothing I can do… I can't lose him again Jean, not after… just…'

Jean shushed him, placing a slight finger over his chapped lips. 'Quiet.' She kissed him once, setting one hand on his shoulder, reassuring him. 'I'll be in my room if you need me.' She smiled, compassionately, letting him know she cared, as a slight of a smile traced over his face. 'Sleep well.'

She left him there, sweeping out of the room to catch up on her own lost sleep.

* * *

Scott's phone rang, vibrating inconspicuously against his chest. He unlocked the screen, and answered with his typically formal, though now depressedly subdued greeting of 'Summers.'

'You do… care for your brother, don't you?' The voice was oily, quiet yet distinguished.

His reaction was sudden, snapping out of his stupor. 'What have you done to him? Where is he? TELL ME!' He was screaming down the phone, despondent, snarling like an enraged, cornered animal.

The voice on the end was smooth, even. 'Tomorrow night. One AM. The old opera house. Don't disappoint. Don't tell anyone; we _will_ know, and Alex will bear the… unfortunate consequences. I hope to see you there.'

Scott was left, conflicted, listening as the dial tone went dead and the long, resounding beep swept through the dawn.

**AN: you asked for another chapter, so there it is. Plot twist! Want something in this fic, a pairing, a scene, a non-evolutionised character brought into the fray? REVIEW! It makes me happy!**

**Update should come in about four days; schoolwork does that to you.**

**Adios!**

**-Oz**


	3. Chapter 3: Imperative

**AN: SORRY IT'S LATE!**

**There have been shenanigans in my life lately, and large economics projects don't help. Still, that's no excuse for me to try and justify myself… **

**And I will try to make it up to you followers and readers by updating the next one quickly, ok? Here, have a cookie. Didn't mean to make you wait.**

* * *

The sensation was of weightlessness.

Swimming under. Blissfully silent.

The sun penetrated that water, leaving curtainlike trails, pellucid, burnished gold, shining in clear blunted shafts between the liquid crystal of the lagoon.

Thick, oddly gelatinous, yet there was no need to breathe. It was almost as if it didn't matter, whilst being held in suspended animation beneath the surface of the glistening lake.

Lazily, sluggishly, tranquillity.

The surface was a long way away, but there was no need to fracture the delicate equilibrium, no point in rupturing the undisturbed skin, the membrane holding the water still.

It was pleasantly warm; nothing left any sort of exigency unfulfilled.

The outside world was irrelevant.

What outside world?

* * *

'Rogue! Snap out of it, kid!'

She dodged the claw-like contraption, just, a fraction of a millimetre out and she would have been danger room fodder. It was a 'Logan-speciality' session, with the parameters on as high as they would go, the sentient room on an all-out war to eradicate them. And winning.

Most of the backup team known as the New Mutants were out, nursing bruises, headaches and a minor, yet still smarting, torus fracture afflicting the left arm of Roberto da Costa. Kitty was long gone; the ability to dematerialise was only useful when you could see what was coming up behind you, and when a snapping pincer took her out from behind, her phasing powers were lost to the team's meagre effort. She was currently residing in the medbay, Dr. McCoy now attempting to rouse her from the land of unconsciousness.

A snaking tendril snuck up on Rogue, grasping her ankle and tugging, hard. She almost fell, trying to keep her balance as another grappling, snapping pincer approached ominously from her vulnerable back side. She could hear it, getting ever-closer now, moving in for a bone-breaking strike-

Feeling herself being lifted up, away from the threat of the coiling, snarling metal spirals of doom was a relief for the green eyed mutant, the sudden ascension in no way disconcerting as she surged up towards her comrade, rising to the roof. The dome of the ceiling, metal plated and adorned with the smoking, blackened remains of old cannons, was now razed by the superhumans that had done their work to ravage the offensive artillery.

She let herself be hoisted up to Jean's level, joining the older girl in an unspoken, yet reluctant partnership. As the telepath did her work defending her teammates and attacking the rest of the programmed defences, Rogue acted as an early warning system, alerting her to any incoming explosives, projectiles or ever-persistent ferrous tentacles.

Despite the way the redhead pretended to value her, all Rogue could think about was how redundant a position she had been relegated to. So sure, nobody wanted to endure the sinking feeling of having their power stripped from them, but it did all but nothing to raise Rogue's already damp spirits. It was a Saturday morning, and Logan, in his infinite wisdom, had deemed it necessary to rouse the sleepy hordes and subject them to a gruelling Danger Room session, under his leadership, at half seven. It was ridiculous. She had slept for less than four hours last night, kept awake by nightmares and some asshole finding it funny to try and poke fun at her mysterious background over her MSN. Yeah, she still used the ageing instant messaging service. Add that to the list of crap that she had to deal with.

* * *

User77053: Would you be interested in finding out the secrets of your past? The unknowns in your life rectified, your personal demons laid clear for you to see?

Rogue_X: who r u? spam?

User77053: I am a friend, Rogue X. An ally. A comrade. A Friend.

Rogue_X: is this ur idea of a sick joke cos it isnt funny.

Rogue_X has blocked User77053 from contacting her. Undo the block here

* * *

And it didn't help that miss Popularity always made her feel like she was second class, inferior. Just because she didn't have absolute control over everything didn't mean she was weak. And whatever the hell this new classification system Cerebro had come up with wasn't doing wonders for her self-esteem. 'Volatile Beta'. The new system classified mutants based upon their control over their ability, and the danger it posed. In a nutshell, it stated she was average, with no control. Despite the problems it tried to right by classing those it detected, all it entailed was squabbling, Bobby being an arrogant little shit over being graded as an alpha, and not aiding Rogue with easing the remorse she felt over the fact that her touch was lethal and untameable.

Volatile. It was a grossly misinformative term, making her sound like she was going to explode without a moment's notice. The injustice made her clench her fists and return to her post as lookout, inwardly seething with something akin to fury, though repressed, nowhere near smiling on the outside façade she portrayed, but less than revealing her true feelings of angst, self-inflicted guilt, the worthlessness constantly niggling away at the back of her mind, eroding her so she would fall apart piece by useless piece.

Rogue repressed it. Now was not a time for emotional breakdowns; that was for late at night, mercifully alone, when nobody could hear her tormented, choked sobs concealed by her pillow.

She returned her attention to the danger room, so caught up in her own musings she had failed to notice what was right in front of her. A disc of pulsating orange energy shot towards her, too fast to avoid, the dervishing glow just giving her enough time to brace herself for the sudden impact.

The miniscule projectile collided, its guided systems accurate and powerful enough to faze the force holding them up, both girls descending from the sky in a celestial starfall, the cold concrete floor ascending to meet them, closer and closer and-

BAM-swish-AMF

She felt herself being planted on the ground, firmly, gently, before her fuzzy blue saviour teleported off somewhere, leaving her in a dazed state, smelling of brimstone and the hellish otherworld Kurt teleported through when he left this dimension in a flash of sulphurous smoke, to reappear somewhere else.

Rogue's vertiginous fall left her reeling, sick to the pit of her stomach where the gyre of hell had impacted, her uniform bearing the majority of the circlet's fury, though not protecting her enough to avoid the formation of an angrily red, stinging welt that singed her porcelain skin and left her nerve endings screeching in protest.

Jean made a _harrumphing _noise, as if it was entirely Rogue's fault that she was now out of action. She could be such an arrogant, self-centred, shallow, narcissistic, holier-than-thou, perfectly despicable-

'Rogue? Come on, you're out. Let's get you cleared up; you look a right mess. Here.'

'What?' She turned around, surprised, searching for the voice. It was only when she looked down did she note the naïve, shining face of the little Madrox kid, holding a hoodie up to her like it was being blessed by christ himself. 'Thanks Jamie, but ah'm fahne. Really. Ah don't need a hoodie, it aint cold.'

The kid giggled and pointed to Remy, still tossing cards halfheartedly, spewing them out from his tan coat as if he'd never run out of the things, while his eyes were fixated on the southern gal. Rogue caught his eye, staring him down and raising one eyebrow to convey her disapproval. He didn't move, not even noticing her expression, and it was only when she looked to find the source of his fascination that she swiftly swiped the bleakly grey hoodie off the twelve-year-old, bunching it up against her chest to hide the sizeable hole in her uniform that the impact had created, thankful that it didn't show more of her skin, yet irked by the revelation. If the thief couldn't keep his eyes off her body than he certainly didn't deserve to have the pleasure of seeing it. _Besides,_ she thought ruefully, _I'm certainly not pretty enough to be of any interest. He's just doing it to annoy me. Sure he is._

The thoughts of denial and psychology swirled into her mind, before she could halt their progression, but she quickly banished from her thoughts. Gambit was an arse. Gambit=Arse. End of. _END OF._

Her fingernails suddenly became unnaturally interesting.

She stormed out of the doorway, it swishing shut behind her like a final executioner's blow.

* * *

Forty minutes later, the stinging having dissipated, Rogue slouched on the sofa, lazily flicking through the television channels, coffee in hand. There was nothing to do; so sure, there was a French test on Monday, but she had all of Sunday to revise. And she'd only forget the lyrically irregular vocabulary if she tried to learn it all today.

She settled on a crappy cartoon, not even paying attention, too engrossed in her thoughts stemming from one guy in particular. So sure, Remy was a womanising greaseball, but-

_No, but nothing. Just leave it there. Leave it. Don't think about that. Look at Spongebob, yeah, that little sponge thing… how can there be a lake underwater? The thing is underwater, right? The thing. Show. Yeah. Remy. NO._

The door suddenly gave way to a flying mass of propulsion as Sam flew into the room, careering wildly about until he came to a stop in front of Rogue, his forcefield not protecting him from her disapproving stare. He grimaced, his hair wildly tussled from the frantic flight.

'Ah'm sorry, what was it ya wanted? Cause, ah'm kinda busy.'

'What, kiddie's cartoons filling your otherwise empty life?' He grinned sardonically, prompting Rogue to snap back, swishing her head back so quickly that the fragile cartilage in her necked cracked slightly, and she brought a hand up to nurse it. 'Channel 17, like, now. They're doing a report, should still be on if you're quick.' He picked up the remote control and pressed three buttons, the screen changing from animated shorts to an official-looking news report. Filling the screen was a short clip of a needle dipping into a test tube, on repeat, over and over again. The newsreader droned on at the two.

'…though the likelihood is that it could still be in the development stage for up to the next three months, experts are revealing that they are close to a cure, and that the variations that differ from victim to victim can be easily synthesised, allowing new and improved treatments which are worlds better than the current incurable situation. Sadie Coburn, 24 News.' The image on the screen faded into the newsreader shuffling papers purposefully on her desk, as the presenters so often did, before fading out to an advert break.

Sam was beaming. Rogue was in shock. It didn't take a genius to put two and two together.

'They've all but cured it! Isn't that, like, awesome?'

It was all that Rogue could do not to gawp in shock like a gormless carp. Was he implying that there was a cure for mutation…? And if so, it would mean that the teams would be exposed if they did use this new cure, and found out eventually if they didn't, as images of pitchforks and burning torches conjured up by the people of Bayville and the wider world filled her head. And then an image of a couple holding hands, a gleeful hug, a passionate kiss...

'Sam… what is this? And why? Where can we find it, cause this aint… aint... Sam?' She pressed her younger teammate, almost violently inquisitive, causing his eyes to suddenly widen in faked shock.

'Rogue, you don't have cancer, do you? Cause-'

The rest of his sentence was washed out by mixed emotions stemming from her. It was cancer, not mutation they were curing. False alarm. But it was still the overbearingly powerful emotion that she felt that threatened to overwhelm her. Relief coursed together with indescribable disappointment, aching regret and fear and pain and confusion at everything, understanding impossible for her, the heartache she felt on so many levels. To know, inside, that you could never love anyone, never get close to them for fear of destroying them, turning their memories inside out, scrutinising them, absorbing their abilities, leeching off their energy, their life force, usurping their soul.

She hid her conflict behind a laugh and swept out of the room, her hopes of living a normal life once again crushed by the judge, jury and executioner of life and fate and chance and a billion and one other pointless reasons beyond her useless lack of control.

She slammed the door behind her. The point of the gesture was lost on Remy, who seemed to be wandering her way, in the way, blocking her path as he always seemed, if nothing more than in a metaphorical sense, to avidly do. He couldn't help himself but smile as she passed. 'Did anyone ever tell you dat you're-'

Rogue slammed into him, knocking him aside, flailing slightly as he grappled with a coffee table for balance. Her expression was fierce and almost scary, eyebrows knitted together in anger, hair hanging down to block out the world. She could have been a harpy, a vengeance-seeker from the myths of old, set on uncensored destruction.

He whistled under his breath, blinking to check he was still awake, that this wasn't some daydreaming fantasy.

'Man, dat is one hell of a woman.'

* * *

Deep in the recesses of the basement, squirrelled away underground for secrecy and protection, the three men waited patiently for the little machine in the corner to shut up, anticipating the time when the computer would stop incessantly bleeping and the results would be revealed to them.

'Capital of Denmark, ten. Thought it was Geneva or Brussels, but they don't fit.'

'Copenhagen.'

'Cheers.'

'You've been staring at that crossword puzzle for almost twenty minutes, Logan; how many words have you filled in? I don't intend to be rude, but if you're having difficulty then-'

'One. Copenhagen.'

'Ah.'

It amazed Logan how these people could be so patient. He'd scrambled around for the last half an hour, trying to find something to entertain himself since completing the gentle training session, waiting for more of this information to come through on whatever the hell had been spying on them last night. It was obviously important enough to raise serious alarm; neither of his two companions had slept since he had dragged it in last night, doing the electronic equivalent of kicking and screaming like a petulant three-year-old.

It showed. Both men looked fatigued, washed-out. The hints of dark circles under dulling eyes were visible, even under the voluminous layer of fur that Beast showed off. His mind ambled, and he wondered if he shampooed it, and whether it got ticks. Even the thought of taking the teacher to a grooming parlour amongst the poodles and pampered spaniels made him chuckle slightly, ignoring the bewildered looks of the other two. He doubted Beast would be happy if he was enlightened to the situation.

There was a knock on the door, almost apologetically. The Russian kid stepped in, wringing his hands nervously and staring at the floor like it held the answers to the universe. The professor wheeled himself over to him.

'Ah, Colossus, how may I help you? I don't mean to pry, but there is something definitely troubling you- and I needn't be a telepath to infer that. Are your family alright?'

Piotr faltered then, and looked up, concern etched into his strong features. 'You might vant to check Cerebro, Professor. I haff just had a call from my family, and I belieff that my sister… her mutant… vhat is ze vord… abilities? Da, zhey are coming out and I think zhat I am needed back at home, more zhan here, at least. You may vant to listen to zhe call, I haff not taken it off zhe phone message machine, so you can hear it too. Please professor?'

Charles smiled, reassuring the younger man as he fretted over his family. 'Of course Piotr. Would you like me to come too- not that I think you can't handle it, because you are an extremely capable young man- but just in case? We have room for another here at this school, and besides, I'm sure we can ease any issues she, or your family, may have. It is a turbulent time for all involved, so a little help would never hurt. Would tomorrow be a good time to depart? It is never my intention to hurry anyone, but I understand the importance of your family.'

'I'm already ready. Sorry, zhat sounded stupid… um… already packed.' He moved aside to show a small duffel bag that had been unceremoniously dumped in the corridor. 'Can ve go please? It vas important. There were crashes and uh, explosions.'

The professor's benign face hardened into that of grave concern. 'I see,' he said solemnly, 'would your family mind if we brought someone else along? It sounds like we might need the extra help.'

'I asked. Zhey said zhey didn't mind, and-'

Kitty appeared, suddenly appearing through the wall. 'Yeah, and besides, we like, don't know each other very well, and if there's falling stuff, I'm _totally_ the best person to help, and yeah.' She stopped her monologue to gaze at them silently. 'Is there a problem sir?'

Beast tutted, and rolled his eyes. 'Really Kitty, I think you may want to stay, for the moment at least. You were hit pretty hard during that danger room session, and I doubt you're up to flying, especially at Blackbird velocity.' He paused when he noticed her determined look. 'Fine. I know that look. And anyway, I couldn't keep you out of the hangar, even if I wanted to.'

The younger girl smiled, knowing when she had been proclaimed victorious. I'm gonna skedaddle, tell everyone where I'm going. I'll meet you by the X-Jet in like, five. Back in a mo!' The chirpy brunette vanished once again, phasing straight through the door, the automatic doors sensing a person and opening a split second after she had gone.

Piotr followed, with a sense of reined urgency that the professor couldn't help but pick up on, it radiating from his distracted mind like a transmitter.

'Hank, look after the mansion while we're out. If anything happens, call me, or you could alternatively get Jean to contact me via Cerebro.' The older man wheeled out after the worrying Russian. 'And Logan, do try to stay out of trouble. I should be back soon.'

The door swished silently shut behind the trio.

* * *

They all felt the rumble of the jet as it took off from under the foundations of the building, the three departing for deepest darkest Siberia.

It seemed like an age before the bleeping stopped, and immediately the scientist was at the side of the computer in a flash of blue and wire-framed glasses.

'Fascinating,' he mused, 'the preliminary research can tell us almost nothing about the origin of this ingenious little device; not where it's from, who produced it, nothing. Hm. It makes me wonder whether or not this is government funded, because only our defence spendings would allow whoever is behind this to construct such an untraceable mechanism. I wonder…'

'Great. You go wonder. I'm gonna tell the kids that someone's looking at them as they sleep and set the mansion to lockdown.'

'Logan-'

'They have a right to know. And as much as I hate playing the _humanitarian_, some things people deserve not to be kept in the dark about. Trust me, I know.' The living weapon left the room with his usual aggressive assertion, slicing one keen Adamantium claw straight through the locking mechanism to voice his less than approving opinion.

'But-'

'Shut it, Furby.'

* * *

Scott awoke to the sound of his phone ringing, for the eighth time.

He grasped the small device, fumbling for the power off button to dismiss the persistent caller, whoever they were. He rolled back over, his pillow offering a warm solace to which to bury his head in.

He was held in the sort of semi-solid limbo that was the realm between sleep and wakefulness for quite a while, not quite willing to let sleep truly embrace him, worry still plaguing his troubled mind, half-formed questions almost coming into play yet not yet verbalised, emotional turmoil disrupting his already erratic sleep pattern. Noises originating from both the dreamlike state and betweenworld reality mingled together in an unknowing disarray of nonsense and madness.

A police siren screaming down by the road roused him, shrugging off the layers of sleep that blanketed his consciousness like a fog. Instinct kicked in, and he reached blindly out to his bedside table to try and locate his sunglasses. His fingers brushed them aside accidently, and he swept his hand along the floor in an attempt to pick them up. He slept sightless, a blindfold tightly swathing his eyes to prevent any tiny possibility of something going horrifically wrong and slicing open the ceiling.

Something snagged against his fingernail, and he grabbed his sunglasses, untying the knot on the strip of cloth keeping his eyes in check. He slid them on, opening his eyes, awakening to a world of scarlet and crimson shade. The time on his alarm clock read 10:24, and as he watched, the last number switched forwards to 5. Despite the meagre sleep he had managed to scratch together, he felt slightly more refreshed than last night of furious searching and heartache and pain.

Ah. That.

He rubbed his forehead, sliding his hand down over his glasses to try to deal with his impossible situation. He stayed like that for several minutes, trying to discern the choice he had to make.

Still, it was unlikely for him to be able to think of any alternative. It was him for Alex, a simple switch, and as much as he hated to admit it, he couldn't risk any sort of harm coming to his kid brother. He just couldn't bring himself to cause him any more pain, knowing that they had been separated for years, believing the other to be dead, and physical _or _psychological duress would probably kill Scott from the inside.

Caught up in his thoughts, he was startled out of it by Kurt teleporting into his room, the blue impish highschooler swinging from the lampshade, sticking his tongue out and crossing his eyes.

'Surprise sleeping beauty! You avake yet? Ja, you are. Thought so!'

'Kurt! I'm really not in the mood right now. Just leave me be.'

'I left you be. And you didn't even turn up for danger room. Jean said you vere unlikely to be up until later, so I saved you breakfast…. But I kinda got hungry, you know, hyperactive metabolism and all, so I ate it. Sorry! Jean vanted to know if you vere avake, so I came up and here you vere, so Tschus!

The blue mutant disappeared in a literal puff of smoke, departing with one of his customary German parting words. Sometimes, Scott rued the younger mutant's endless supply of boundless energy, and sometimes envying it. Hell, he didn't even have the energy to get up off the bed. He slumped back down, tousling the covers, head back, eyes closed, lost in thought.

The door opened, and someone walked in. their footsteps were light and regular, padding across the carpet. He forced a smile. 'Hey Jean. Miss me?'

He was vaguely surprised when she sat down on the bed with him, yet more so when a cloying stench of some sort of perfume reached him. It seemed to swirl in a thick, suffocating cloud, causing him to cough abruptly and sit up. 'Hey,' he coughed again 'New perfume?'

'Yeah… you like it? It was on special the last time the sirens and I went out shopping with Jubilee.' The Bayville Sirens had been their nighttime vigilante band, disbanding eventually, yet they still kept the name, especially as a close-knit affectionate term for each other, commonly used after a huge shopping binge.

'Think Kitty and rock cakes. Don't ever go shopping with Jubilee again. How much has she eaten into her college fund now?'

'You shouldn't be so harsh, Scott. Besides,' she stroked his cheek, in an odd, disconcerting way that tried to be romantic, yet all it managed to do was alarm him 'it's a girly thing. Don't try to understand it; there's no sort of guy logic that can be applied to it. We shop in the same way you hog the remote control when we watch TV together.'

'Do not.' He wasn't in the mood for an argument, yet still remained stubborn in his protest.

She laughed, a high, melodic sound, tinkling like a bell. 'You totally do. Listen, you seem stressed. About Alex. And you look like crap. Come and watch something with me; something funny. There's that new comedy on HBO, we recorded it last night while you were out.'

He made a soft 'mmhmm' sound, inwardly wishing he had never signed up for this. He rolled over, facedown in his pillow, his shoulder resting on her hand. 'Five minutes, k? Tired.'

'Five minutes.'

The door shut with a soft click.

* * *

He was rising to the surface of the water now.

It was closer, closer than before. And now he was more composed, able to string a coherent sentence together, a sense of identity rediscovered in the oasis of nothingness. Whatever they had put in his system was wearing off, because he could feel his senses returning to him.

Touch first. It was cold, and there was something biting into his wrists like an anaconda.

Then the smell of brimstone, and the taste of something bitterly acrid, metallic on his tongue. The sounds of talking, hushed whispers, anticipation embedded in the voices, excitement almost. Like when the volume on the TV was turned down too low, and the sound could be heard, it was indecipherable, a background hum, yet the meaning could be grasped, roughly.

And then the world began to focus, a light, then colours and shade and figures and depth and motion.

He broke free from the surface of the water.

And

He

Breathed.

Alex opened his eyes.

* * *

**AN: Please review! It gives me incentive! Sorry to keep you waiting, but like I said, stuff happens.**

**REVIEW! That little button there! Small, inconspicuous, a minute of your time and speedier updates from thereon out!**

**Pwease? :3**

**-Oz**


	4. Chapter 4: Collateral Damage pt 1

**AN: THIS IS IMPORTANT**

**Look out world. Fourth chapter. Yay. I've just been on a filmmaking weekend, with little to no internet connection, so this chapter will come in two parts; one now, Sunday night, one later, probably about 9pm GMT Tuesday or thereabouts. (EST 4pm, I think, for my American readers. I know there aren't a lot of you, but that's how much I value people who read my work :3 be honoured people.)**

**So, if you see it's been updated but there are still only four chapters it's because I've updated this one, and added some more stuff.**

**As far as disclaimers go, I don't have a lot to say. I don't own any of these characters, just borrowing them and beating them up a bit. And making them beat themselves up a bit too. Please don't hurt me. **

**By the way, how many of you read or have read the X-Men comics? Not that I'll judge you, I'm merely curious.**

**Don't forget to be awesome!**

**-Oz**

It was odd quite how quickly the man went from human to animal.

One second he was there, she wouldn't say _friendly, _but at least amicable, not about to fly off into a maddened rage. He and Rogue were making polite conversation, nothing but pointless small talk, and so sure, he was grouchy and wanted to be somewhere else, but he wasn't going to stick a claw, or six, through her brain.

And to be honest, she regretted having a TV in the room then. The magic flickering box was great for procrastination and watching half a season of her favourite shows a night, but it seemed to catch his attention at just the wrong moments, the ethereal glow from the screen drawing him in like a moth to a flame.

The story probably helped, too.

The reporter broadcasting his piece had taken shelter underneath the battered framework of a burnt-out Ford Transit, his voice indistinct, the volume turned down too low to decode his words, though just enough to feel the quivering fear in his tone.

And then the next second, Logan had gone full Wolverine, his features almost reshaping themselves; it was almost terrifying to the others in the room, the change the man had gone through in less than a moth's heartbeat. A couple backed out, slowly, making half-hearted excuses, irrelevant stuff about homework and chores.

The picture now displayed on the screen was of chaos, cars being thrown around like cardboard boxes, flames licking the streets in scenes of devastation and destruction. As the trio left gawping at the news story watched, a fireball flared from a ruptured petrol tank, the eruption blacking the display for a second, the screen disappearing into a halo of enwreathed white flames, a black spot the centre, before fading back to the chaotic street, the last onlookers now fleeing to the relative safety of the buildings and alleys that surrounded them.

A clump of twisted metal hit a traffic light, and the bulb sparked before falling from its hold, the red plastic shattering into a billion and one fathomless piece on the tarmac below.

The text on the screen read 'Superhuman abilities? The debate rages on our webpage,' and a shouting headline boomed over the bottom quarter of the picture, red-ringed, 'Animal-man attacks Toronto.'

'Turn it up.'

She complied. It was difficult to resist Logan, especially when he was in his most… _persuasive_ of moods.

'… and the city-wide evacuations are being conducted at this minute. So far there has been one civilian casualty, though a further three are missing. The terrorist came into the city centre less than twenty minutes ago, and the scenes of destruction have been apparent ever since. His identity is unknown to either the military or the police, and both efforts to halt his rampage or detain the unknown man have failed.

'On a closer inspection, the city's assailant appears to have large, bear-like claws on both hands and the ability to heal almost instantaneously from shallow wounds, though the extent of this superpower is yet unbeknown to authorities,' the screen cut to an earlier clip, a window shattering and tiny red pinpricks suddenly blossomed over both Sabretooth and the civilian onlookers. The large, feral mutant wiped away the blood, and the camera zoomed onto the slices in his skin, now closing up miraculously, like a sped-up video clip in nature documentaries.

Logan snarled, an animalistic sneer of brutality and aggression. His claws were out, gleaning in the sunlight which arced through the uncurtained windows, the knifelike weapons poised for combat. His stance was hunched over, every muscle tensed, lip curled, revealing his teeth, barred, feral, almost roaring in his rage.

Ororo rushed forwards, her feet barely touching the floor in her hurry to restrain her friend. It was unlikely that she would escape this unscathed, and both she and Rogue knew that. Her frantic gestures told the younger mutant all she needed to know, the senior member of the X-men motioning for her student to run, to get away from her struggle before either of them got themselves killed.

Rogue ran.

The sky outside darkened, the clouds rolling in, cutting off the lifeblood of the sun as she stepped outside the mansion's great, imposing front. The New Mutants playing mutant-baseball stopped their game and stared; Sunspot's black, crackling energy form fell from the sky as the dark-skinned Brazilian's power source was dampened by the oncoming storm.

There was an abrupt scuffle, some frantic pleading and a series of short cries, smashing, the tinkling harmony of shattering glass; the window gave way to the two warring teachers, the African beauty's chocolate complexion marred by a series of bloodied marks, a section of her snowy white hair sheared off, resting at shoulder length, at odds with the rest of the permed wave.

Logan grunted at the impact, not noticing the glass shards sticking into his skin, much like his archenemy's predicament seen moments ago, and, like his nemesis, he shrugged it off, his body already repairing itself, the weathered skin knitting itself back together as his students looked on in barely checked horror. They could only stare as their mentor, instructor and friend attacked the woman who acted as a mother for most of them, barely managing to contain his fury. For Rogue it was all too obvious to see the man's internal struggle over his inner animal, his face etched with a furious, murderous anger, yet embedded in his eyes was pain and sorrow and a burning need to be free of the uncontrollable killer instinct, a man just wanting to live his life with memories and a home and a family.

And before she knew what she was doing, Rogue was running across the baseball court to confront the two, still tussling, Storm crying as she called up a flash of lightning to strike her attacker, the electricity convulsing his form as parts of his body were burnt, charred, atomised, the skin blackening and disintegrating, before replacing itself as the Wolverine continued his conquest.

His fist connected with Ororo's face, and she cried out as the metal bones in his hand caught on the high prow of her cheekbones. A slight smear of blood blossomed like a mournful rose over her left cheek, the skin having split where his blow had struck.

Because this wasn't Logan, this wasn't even _Wolverine, _and fuck, this was more than that, fallen further into his hellbent desperation, this was a caged animal let loose into the world after being greeted by a cattle prod.

It wasn't unusual for him to go shitcrazy when Sabretooth turned up, but never this severe, never this out of control. It was blinded fear that cut Rogue's sprint short, though whether the ground suddenly exploding from out under her feet was a part of it too, she wouldn't know.

The last thing that met her was an agonised shout, a scream, and Ororo's form landing, hard, on the gravel drive, a mere fraction of a second before Rogue fell.

Lights out.


End file.
